


can you turn from joys

by gwendolynflight



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, M/M, Q gets sick, Sick Character, Sickfic, mute character sort of, q/jules brotp, sort of post apocalyptic setting, the gang is on the run
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 03:45:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15900222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwendolynflight/pseuds/gwendolynflight
Summary: On the run from the Beast, Quentin falls sick, and Eliot has to check back in long enough to nurse him through it.





	can you turn from joys

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [What It's For](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6469303) by [itshysterekal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itshysterekal/pseuds/itshysterekal). 



> This is based on one of the timelines in itshysterekal's brilliant What It's For, the cave timeline if you know the fic. (And you should, go read it). I might write more in this timeline, but for now this is a standalone sickfic. We just don't have enough of these in the fandom. ;)
> 
> Title taken from Edgar Albert Guest's "On Quitting"
> 
> Comments would be most appreciated!

Quentin woke up to snot running freely down the back of his throat, and a sense of dread.

They’d set camp in an abandoned farmhouse somewhere in the midwest, so he staggered up off the dusty mattress on the dirty floor hoping this was just allergies.

A few of the others had built a small fire, and Josh was cooking something that Quentin couldn't quite smell. He sniffled, and shuffled over to join them.

“Hey,” Julia said, patting a cushion next to her. Quentin slumped down gratefully, sending up a cloud of dust. He sniffled again, and she asked, “You okay?”

They were all a little worn thin from months in hiding, on the run from mountain cave to forest clearing to abandoned homes. “I’m okay,” he insisted, accepting a cup of hot coffee from Josh. The warmth felt good on his throat, and he let himself huddle a bit.

Julia’s hand suddenly planted itself on his forehead, and he flinched. 

“Doesn’t feel like you have a fever,” she said critically, pulling her hand back.

“Don’t have time to be sick,” he muttered, sipping some more coffee.

Penny slammed in through the cracked side door, his eyes wide. “Time to go,” he snapped, and, used to the routine, everyone scrambled to pack.

Josh poured the rest of the coffee into a large thermos and stuck a piece of bacon in his mouth, sweeping the rest into a tin. Quentin handed over his cup and stumbled over to his bags, patting them roughly to make sure everything was there. Someone swept up the blankets and pillows, and five minutes later they stood in a rough circle holding hands. Margo had put a gravity belt on Alice, and levitated her sleeping body over to their circle, joining with a grim look on her face. Penny squeezed his eyes shut, and blinked them away.

They emerged into a snow storm. 

It had been chilly in Missouri or wherever, but here the air hit like a hammer, and Quentin’s lungs seized. A cough ripped out of him, and he staggered out of the circle, clutching his chest.

“Q?” Margo asked, and for a moment he thought she sounded concerned.

“I’m fine,” he rasped.

“He’s fine,” Penny snapped. “Let’s go.” He strode off into the storm, and everyone hurried to follow. Julia touched Quentin’s hand, and then she scurried off too.

Eliot was standing up to his knees in the snow, a distant look on his face, and Quentin’s mouth took on a worried slant. “Eliot?” he called, voice a little rough.

Eliot’s eyes refocused, and he ploughed through the snow to Quentin, and took in his shivering form. His expression still slightly distant, he tilted his head as if to ask, “You okay?” But he didn't actually speak, and Quentin felt another pang at the distance between them. 

“El, let’s … let’s follow the others.”

Nodding silently, Eliot forged ahead, his long legs breaking a path.

Quentin wrapped his arms around his middle, and followed in Eliot’s wake.

Quentin’s battered black oxfords soaked through almost immediately. He could barely see Eliot walking ahead of him, and he felt like he was moving more slowly than he actually was. Even with the trail broken by Eliot, the snow was hard to move through, and Quentin was sweating in spite of the cold, and because of the cold the sweat was freezing on his skin and making him even colder. 

They had landed on the side of a mountain, the ground uneven and rough under his soaked shoes, and they were above the treeline, moving downward toward it. They strung out in a line, and every now and then the snow thinned just enough he could see Penny hundreds of feet below, the rest spread out behind him dangerously far apart. Quentin, at the end of this ragged line, started to wonder how they were going to get out of this.

The Beast had been on their heels for months. They’d been making like zombie apocalypse survivors for most of that time - the last time they’d sought sanctuary with a Brakebills alumna, her entire family and her neighbors had been slaughtered. Forcing his way through the snow, Quentin remembered the blood, so much blood, and couldn’t help but think this nomadic bullshit was still better than risking someone else.

Just down the slope there were immense evergreen trees, conical in shape and white with accumulated snow, so that they seemed to appear suddenly out of the storm. They stumbled beneath the canopy. Out of the howling wind, it seemed strangely quiet. They were all wet and shivering. Margo had tried to shield Alice with her coat and two blankets, and she looked like an icicle. 

“Where are we going?” Quentin asked through chattering teeth.

“There’s a cabin,” Penny said tersely.

“Okay, so let’s go,” Margo snapped.

Wordlessly, Penny led them off again. Everyone followed more slowly, and Quentin kept an eye on Eliot, again taking the last place in line.

He was worried about Eliot. He was worried about all of them, but since Eliot had gotten high and his distraction had gotten Alice injured, he hadn’t been himself. Quentin hadn’t been with the others when it happened - he’d fallen back into Earth’s fountain and had needed to find his own way to Fillory with Julia. By the time they’d caught up with Eliot and the others, Alice had been in a coma, her girlfriend Margo had been distraught, and not talking to Eliot, and Quentin hadn’t known what to do. He’d played his part in screwing up Margo’s relationship, sleeping with her and Eliot while fucked up on emotion magic. He still felt guilty about that, even after everything. The last thing Alice had ever said to him was, “I thought we were friends.”

He still heard those words sometimes.

But in a way, Eliot’s deterioration hurt worse, and with everything that had followed - rescuing Victoria, discovering Plover wasn’t the Beast, failing to find Ember and fleeing Fillory without the knife or a plan, Beast on their heels - Quentin had really needed his friend, and Eliot had been sort of absent.

Quentin had tried to be there for Eliot, but he really didn’t know how.

At least he had Julia back in his life. He’d missed his friend so much. Even when he’d been angry at her, had felt hurt and betrayed, he’d missed her. And now he had her back. Eliot didn’t have anyone. He wouldn’t lean on Quentin, for some reason, and Margo could barely look at him.

Quentin thought he might have destroyed more than one relationship with that damned threesome.

These thoughts somewhat distracted him from the fact that he couldn’t really feel his feet, and that his throat was starting to hurt. He stuck his fingers in his armpits and stumbled after the others. The snow wasn’t so deep, now, but roots caught at his numb feet, trees knocked him off course.

It was hard work. He was sweating, chest heaving, so he loosened his jacket. It was so warm, all of a sudden, and he was so thirsty, his mouth was so dry. He ate a handful of snow, and for a moment was reminded of snow cones with his dad, of hot summer days, of Coney Island. He could almost hear laughter in the distance, screams of joy. He was so hot. He unzipped his jacket all the way, and the wind felt good on his skin.

He was in a forest. He looked around, but couldn’t see anything to tell him why he was there. He shrugged out of his jacket, tying it around his waist. It was snowing, he noticed, and he walked downhill, kicking at the drifts and craning his neck to catch glimpses of the sky through the tall trees. He wondered what kind of trees these were. Firs? Pine?

“Quentin?” A voice called.

He paused, looked around. It was getting warmer, and he pulled at the collar of his shirt. He wondered why he’d stopped, and walked a little further downhill.

“Quentin!” A voice called. He paused, bracing one hand against the trunk of a tree. Did he know that voice? He looked around, but didn’t see anyone. Just trees, and snow. He frowned thoughtfully, ran a hand through his hair - or tried to. It was stiff, and his fingers got caught. He pulled them free, stumbling a little. He looked around, saw that it was snowing. He smiled, wondering if there would be hot chocolate at home. Was his dad …? He walked a little farther downhill.

There was movement behind him, caught in the periphery of his vision. He paused, turned to look - and something big slammed into him.

He went down, hard, and landed in snow so fresh it crunched beneath him. A heavy body landed on top of him, an elbow driving into his stomach. He wheezed, all the breath going out of him.

“What the hell, man?” The body asked, rearing up.

And it was Penny.

Quentin looked up at him, smiling. “Hey, Penny, I didn’t know you were here.”

Penny looked at him like he was crazy, which was about par for the course, and put a hand to his face, touching his forehead and then his cheek. He frowned, cursed. “You have hypothermia, idiot,” Penny said, pulling himself up.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Quentin said, staring up at him and not moving to stand.

“No, it’s not,” Penny snapped, and reached down for him.

Quentin went willingly enough, but once he was up, the whole world seemed to spin around him, and his knees buckled.

“Shit,” Penny yelped, and caught him under the arms.

Quentin slumped against Penny’s chest, wanting nothing more than to lie down again.

“Can I get some help?” Penny yelled over Quentin’s head, and Quentin cringed, trying to pull away from the noise. Penny tightened his grip, and Quentin whined, slumping against him again.

More hands grabbed at him then, and he glanced around to see Julia suddenly there, trying to wedge herself under one of his arms, and Eliot was there, taking the other side.

“When did you get here?” he asked Eliot, but Eliot gave him a very strange look, and Julia asked someone, “Did he hit his head?”

“No,” Quentin answered, or tried to, but no sound came out, and he tried to touch his throat but his arms wouldn’t move, and he looked at it to see that it was being held by Julia. “Hey,” he said to her.

“C’mon, Q,” she said, and he realized she was trying to get a jacket on him, so he tried to help. “Where is this place?” she asked someone.

“We’re almost there,” a voice said, and Quentin glanced up from where he was helping Julia and saw that Penny had arrived. “Hi, Penny,” he said brightly, though his voice came out slurred for some reason, and he thought he might have been drinking, and giggled.

“We don’t have time for this,” Julia said, sounding worried.

And Eliot picked him up.

“Woah,” Quentin murmured, grabbing at Eliot’s shirt and clinging as it suddenly seemed like he was flying, Eliot was moving at such a quick pace, and he watched the trees whizz past with a sense of detached wonder.

He didn’t know how long they went on like this. There were more trees, all alike, and sometimes Julia held his hand, and then they were outside a large log cabin, and in abrupt fragments Quentin watched Penny break in the door, Eliot carry him inside, everyone milling about some interior space.

Then hands were pulling at him, trying to take his clothes, and he tried to pull away, arms flailing. Someone cursed, and his arms were caught, pinned. He whined, a high, desperate noise, twisted his whole body. 

But he was ruthlessly held, stripped, and dumped into a vat of boiling water.

He shrieked, tried to get away. But he was held down, he couldn’t get away, and suddenly his whole body was shaking, shuddering, he couldn’t get his breath and the hands wouldn’t let up, they were killing him. He wailed. Was held without mercy. Burned.

* * *

He woke in surprisingly soft sheets. Someone was curled in front of him, her spine pressed to his chest, his arm wrapped around her middle. Jules. There was someone behind him, a man’s arm pressed to his belly, caught there by the dip in Julia’s spine. Eliot.

Quentin sighed. The air whistled down his sore throat and tore out on a cough. It hurt. His chest seized and he hacked, gasped in a breath and coughed again, a deep, rough, hacking sound that startled Julia awake. Then Eliot’s big hand was rubbing his back, and he coughed again.

Julia left, and came back almost immediately with a glass of water and a tissue. Quentin coughed into it gratefully, and then she helped him drink the water.

It soothed his throat, and he gave the glass back and held his chest with a sense of relief.

He looked around, feeling a little confused. They appeared to be inside a nicely appointed chalet, the bedroom of one anyway. It was dark outside, and a fire burned in an oversized grate. The walls were chinked logs, the chandelier was made of deer antlers, furs everywhere. Country kitsch done with a lot of money. “Where?”

“Some rich asshole’s hunting cabin,” Julia said, shrugging. She handed him another tissue, and continued. “It’s safe, for now, and fully stocked. So.”

“What happened?” His voice cracked on the second word, and he started coughing again.

When he’d finished, Julia explained, “You got hypothermia, wandered off.” She looked down. “We thought we’d lost you, for a minute.”

“Sorry,” he said, his voice a low rasp.

Eliot, still behind him, was oddly silent, in the way he’d been since Alice was hurt, but at least he was there. Quentin was still tired, and he sank back down, blew his nose a couple of times, and fell back into sleep.

It wasn’t a good sleep. Coughing woke him constantly, and he’d fall back into a shallow, dream-filled doze. For him, the important thing was that every time he woke himself, Eliot was there, a silent, steady presence.

When he felt ready to be awake for a while, it was light out, and Eliot helped him sit up in bed. Julia brought him a mug of tea thick with honey. He took a sip, grimaced at the taste, drank some more. His head felt muzzy, and pain radiated from his sinuses to his temples. He breathed the steam coming off the tea, took another sip. Coughed.

“How are you feeling?” Julia asked, sitting on the bed next to him.

He sniffled. “Not great.”

She smiled sympathetically. “A little better?”

“Yeah, a little.” Even this strained his throat, and he coughed again. “What’s going on?”

“We need to move on, soon,” she said, apology in her voice. “But I’ll talk to the others, see if a few more days might be possible.”

“I’m okay,” Quentin insisted, “I can move.”

He broke into coughing again, deep, wracking coughs that bent him nearly double.

Eliot braced him with one big hand on his shoulder. When the coughing fit finally ended, Quentin leaned back into him. He felt weak, worn out, and Eliot felt solid behind him.

“Do you want to get clean?” Julia asked him. “There's a shower, hot water.”

“God, yes,” Quentin said, and tried to sit up. The room spun about him, and he sagged back against Eliot’s chest. “Um, might need a hand,” he admitted.

Eliot stood, first, and then helped Quentin get to his feet, where Quentin felt suddenly tall, and swayed gently back and forth. 

“Can you help him in the shower?” Julia asked Eliot.

Eliot nodded, and guided Quentin to the bathroom with an arm around his shoulders. Quentin had to sit on the closed lid of the toilet while Eliot started up the shower and they waited until the water began to steam before Quentin tried to get his shirt off. His back bowed as coughs wracked his thin frame. His arms caught above his head, and he was wracked with coughing and trapped in his shirt.

Eliot’s warm hand settled on his back, supporting him as he caught his breath. Working carefully, Eliot worked Quentin’s shirt over his head. When he emerged, Quentin’s hair was a nest, his cheeks bright pink with effort. 

Eliot touched his face, and Quentin looked up at him, cocking his head. “What is it?” he asked.

Eliot didn’t say anything, but pulled Quentin to him, pressing Quentin’s head against his chest.

Quentin, slightly baffled by this, held still as Eliot hugged him. After a moment, he relaxed into Eliot’s arms, and Eliot squeezed him a little tighter. “I’m okay,” Quentin said, his voice slightly muffled. 

Eliot made a derisive noise, and shoved Quentin beneath the shower.

The hot water hit Quentin like a hammer. He yelped, tried to back out. Eliot held him in place, and it seemed cruel at first. But then the heat of the water seeped into Quentin’s skin, into his fragile-feeling bones. Quentin sagged in Eliot’s hold, suddenly weak-kneed and floppy-limbed as the cold was chased away and replaced by perfect, molten warmth. Eliot held him there, for how long Quentin didn’t know. His sense of the passage of time didn’t seem to be working. There was just Eliot’s body, a little thinner than he remembered, pressed up against his, and the water. Steam soothed Quentin’s throat, expanded his lungs, soaked out the aches in his joints and the pain in his spine. 

Quentin drifted, a little. Eventually Eliot shifted behind him, then leaned forward and grabbed a bottle of shampoo. His fingers dug into Quentin’s scalp, spreading lather through his hair. Quentin moaned at the feeling. Eliot finished quickly, moved Quentin beneath the stream of water to rinse. Even the beating of the water on the top of his head felt amazing, going through him like a sudden, strange, tingly hollowness. 

Everything went black for just a moment, and when Quentin could focus again Eliot’s big hands were stroking up and down his chest, his belly, spreading soap in broad, sure movements. Quentin clung to Eliot’s wiry forearm and let his head drop back to rest against Eliot’s shoulder. He wondered if Eliot would talk to him, maybe, after this. If Eliot would talk to any of them ever again. 

Eliot’s hands moved lower. He shifted Quentin so that he could wash his back, his legs. His groin, impersonal movements that didn’t stir Quentin’s still cock. He felt so shitty he probably couldn’t have gotten hard even if Eliot had tried something. It still hurt, obscurely, that Eliot hadn’t. 

A last rinse, and Eliot shut off the water and bundled Quentin into a large, fluffy towel, rubbing him down even when Quentin tried to do it himself. The air felt cool on his skin, but almost in a pleasant way after the intense heat of the shower. A cough escaped, another. Eliot put a hand on his back, and it was comforting as he hacked up a small, yellow glob. 

He spat, said, “Ugh, sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Eliot!” Quentin clutched at his towel. “Are you, I mean, I.”

Eliot didn’t look at him, wouldn’t look at him.

“I’m sorry,” Quentin said hoarsely. “I didn’t mean to. Um. Thanks.”

Eliot nodded. Still not looking at him. 

Quentin climbed into the offered sweats, with Eliot’s help, still wavering on his feet. Eliot wrapped an arm around his shoulders, supported him back to the bed. 

Julia was gone somewhere when they emerged into the bedroom. They curled together on the soft bed, Quentin in Eliot's arms. He felt comforted, and because of that he felt better even though his chest still wanted to cave in and his throat still ached. 

Holding on to Eliot's arms where they wrapped around his chest, Quentin whispered Eliot's name.

“Hm?”

“Are you, I mean.” Quentin squeezed his eyes shut. “Don't leave. Please.”

Eliot sighed. Squeezed Quentin a little tighter.

And Quentin accepted that as his answer.


End file.
